Maybe That's How They Make Rocket Fuel
Day Nine.
I once read somewhere that ritual is a hallmark of addiction. For many addicts, it's as much about the process as it is about the substance: rolling a cigarette, flicking a needle, meticulously chopping up a neat line of powder. It's not surprising. The more modern view of substance abuse focuses on its role as a retreat or an escape rather than the simple desire to stave off the physical symptoms of withdrawal. This seems like a more sensible model- after all, you don't get tremors when you quit playing blackjack or World of Warcraft. Humans tend to take comfort in rituals and routines, so it makes sense- assuming addiction is driven by the desire for release- that addictive behavior would pair well with procedure. Habit begets habit.
If this is true, then I might be addicted to pho.
I find it comforting- rewarding even- to bask in the steam coming off the top of a big ol' bowl of noodles, break up the meats, stir in the bean sprouts, rip up the herbs, squeeze in some lime juice and chili sauce, and go to town. There's something about finishing the preparation of a meal myself- delayed gratification, maybe?- that makes it that much more enjoyable. It's as much about the process as it is about the substance.
I go for pho at least once a week when I'm home- typically from the same place, and nearly the same order every time. It's probably a major dent in my NOLA TIL YA DIE credibility that I'm not chowing down twenty-four/seven on CRAWFISH JAMBALAYA POOR BOYS ON THE NEUTRAL GROUND GUMBO PARTY or whatever, but I'm not wholly ashamed to admit that the only eatery in New Orleans where the staff knows me is the Vietnamese café five blocks from my house. In my defense, you can make a pretty convincing case that Vietnamese anything is NOLA as heck and an even more convincing case that "NOLA” shouldn't be an adjective and why am I even talking about this
Reset.
Hello, friends! Rob here.
Greetings from sunny Los Angeles, CA! To be clear, lest anyone accuse me of trashing their hometown, my overall impression is that this is a lovely city with a character all its own, and I cherish every opportunity I get to bask in the honeyed glow of coastal California. But there's something fascinating about Los Angeles that I've never quite been able to put my finger on, and I think it has to do with the duality of the place. Everywhere you look you can see wealth and poverty, glamour and grime, renewal and decay. The collective hopes and dreams of this town could launch a space shuttle, yet the city is notorious for grinding those aspirations into dust. My perspective is also admittedly very limited- I've been here a number of times in my adult life, but always to participate in the entertainment industry. In a way, I'll always be a tourist here.
Broken dreams? Addiction? Gumbo parties? Geez, this is getting depressing. Better talk about last night.
Last night was so fun! The Belly Up in Solana Beach, like its Aspenian counterpart, is a pretty darn special room. There was a strong contingent of those wildlings that call themselves RevHeads- including some from far-flung locales- and the whole evening had an undeniable thump to it. We were supported by a trio of vivacious multi-instrumentalists called Magic Giant, who employed a heretofore-unheard-of combination of folk instruments and synthesizers to hammer out a huge sound. Not a bad first day back at work. And to think tonight might be even better.
